Mimicry
by YamiPaladinofChaos
Summary: [Al x Winry, Implied Ed x Winry] She needs him so. And he cannot deny her.


_**Disclaimer- I don't own Full Metal Alchemist.**_

She's opening the door again, he knows. Despite the blank emptiness of midnight hours, she won't turn on the light, he knows.

Though he wants to speak, he knows she doesn't want to talk.

Though he longs to look into her eyes as she clings to him, he knows she won't let him.

Though he wishes he could hold her and bask in their afterglow, he knows she won't stay.

So he simply draws her into his embrace, looking away as always. He lets her speak, mumble words for his brother's ears and yet for his.

He shouldn't be playing this strange, sick game, he knows. This is a wrong, twisted thing.

And each night, there is a moment when she opens the door and looks at him for that one moment, bathed in the moonlight, that he can say no.

But he hesitates, and she takes him into her madness once more, and they begin again.

He wishes he knew if he loved her. At least then, something about this would be real.

But he doesn't.

They used to play games of pretend, of make believe.

They still do.

But instead of princesses and knights and castles and alchemists, it's a game of grunts and sweat and moans.

She whispers the name that is never beyond their thoughts as they cling together, trying to keep some part of themselves alive.

They both want him back so much... so they try to bring him back in these lonely midnight hours, trying to wash the pain away in the wrongness of this moment.

She grasps at him with fevered hands, desperately urging him onward. She needs him so.

And he cannot deny her.

* * *

The mornings are hard for him. He wakes up alone, cold despite the sheets.

He knows it is because she is gone again.

He goes through the day as though he were a machine, searching, trying to find that inner strength that only his brother had.

He asks to borrow that strength, or at least mimic it until he can bring the real thing back.

There are days when he doesn't think that will ever happen though.

And on those days, he is rougher with her, angrier, as though her coming to him is a sign that the world has forgotten the name of the eldest Elric.

She never complains, never speaks, and is more vocal, more urgent on those days, as though she needs his anger, his fury laced disgust as he touches her.

They both are still such children, playing games of pretend.

* * *

He thinks Roy knows something. Roy always knows everything though.

An innocent question. "How's Winry?"

But the look in his eyes, that slight disgust and that dark wonderment tells the truth.

He merely replies that she is well, though still distraught despite the time.

Roy would then ask how he's taking care of her.

The tone is careful and controlled. So is he.

As best as he can, he would reply. As best as he can.

And to that, Roy would merely smile in terrible understanding.

* * *

These past nights, she seems smaller to his eyes, and softer to his touch.

Though she clings as close as ever, he feels as though she is taking the first step across the great divide.

Her lips brush against his cheek, and he sighs as he buries his face in her soft yellow hair.

Her fingers seem to be searching, slowed down to find something on his body.

But still, he only hears the sound of his brother's name on her lips, and feels only the coldness on the morning.

On one of those angry days, his hands leave bruises and her hands leave cuts.

They whisper and scream, playing their games of pretend.

But this time, as he falls into the sheets and she stands, he whispers one word.

Stay.

She freezes, caught by the moonlight. She doesn't turn.

Time stands still.

He waits there, laying on his side, eyes searching for an answer.

Her feet pound away, and he only catches a glimpse of that soft yellow hair as she rounds the corner, out of sight.

* * *

Since that night, she hasn't returned to the room, hasn't appeared to him in the moonlight.

He sleeps warm every night, and wakes up still cold.

Everything is cold these days.

The taste of tea, the warmth of meat. Nothing is warm.

And then one day, on the night of the black moon she returns.

She does not turn on the light.

She does not speak to him as she clings to his body.

Her hands are fevered, as though this time away has made her sick and this is the cure.

Perhaps it is.

And yet his hands too, are desperately searching, grasping and clinging to her, trying to hold on.

Then, by chance, their eyes meet in the total darkness.

Neither blinks, neither moves away, and for a moment, they are still.

She smiles in the darkness.

He kisses her gently.

Suddenly the fever is cooled, and grasps become strokes, and clinging becomes holding, silence becomes shouting.

And this time, it is his name on her lips.

This time, she stays.

And the dawn is warm.


End file.
